


High Shelves

by RoseAngel



Series: The Red Thread [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, First Meetings, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break. - Ancient Chinese belief</p><p>A series of alternate ways that John and Sherlock could have met. PROMPT FIC.</p><p>Prompt #5: i’m too short to reach the top shelf and too stubborn to get a stool. you watched me take a running leap for it before you offered to grab the book for me</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Shelves

**Author's Note:**

> A million thank yous to my brilliant beta, Becca (LlamaWithAPen).
> 
> Today's prompt comes from Tumblr user quoth-the-ravenclaw's "library aus (based off my experiences working in a university library)" post

John Watson was _not_ short.

Sure, the average height for a man in England was roughly 1.75 metres, and John measured up to 1.69 metres, but that did not mean he was short. The average height took into account all those ridiculously tall outliers, that's all. It did not mean that he was short. He did not feel short, walking around the university grounds; it wasn't like everyone else towered over him. Some people were taller than him, but it wasn't like he strained his neck needing to look up at everyone.

Besides, John was above the average height for a woman, so if a woman who was only 1.61 metres tall was not considered short, then John, being taller than 1.61 metres, was not short either. It was as simple as that.

Height wasn't something that John cared about, really. He'd cared about it growing up, just like everyone else, because children's bodies grow and change and it is something that people keep track of. There was scarcely a year between him and his sister, Harry, and because girls and boys tend to reach their growth spurts at different ages, there was something of a competition between them, for a while, in terms of who grew the tallest the fastest. Harry hit her growth spurt first, and for a while, she was taller than John, which was something she had liked to rub in his face at any opportunity. This had been the point in John's life when he had cared about height the most. However, then John had finally, finally reached his growth spurt, and though he had not shot up like a beanpole like some of the kids in his school, he did grow to taller than Harry, and he stayed that way.

Beyond that, John hadn't really cared about his height. It wasn't an integral part of his identity, after all. John was a biology student, studying to be a doctor. He was the captain of the rugby team. He was a brother, a son, a friend. These were the important parts of his identity. Why did it matter that he did not quite reach up to the average height for a man in England?

(Besides, his height put him at absolutely no disadvantage, and he could easily kick the arse of anyone taller than him if the situation called for it.)

However, there was one tiny issue with being a little bit shorter than the average height: sometimes, John could not quite reach the top shelf.

It wasn't all the time, of course. He could easily reach the shelves in his kitchen, and the top shelf in his cupboard (just as long as he stood on his toes, but really, who didn't need to stand on their toes to reach a top shelf?), but sometimes, the top shelf was just slightly out of his reach. Like the top shelf at the university library.

John did not need to fight with the library shelves very often. The joys of the 21st century included the internet, which meant that most research could be done from the comfort of his own bed, with nothing in his hands but his laptop. However, some assignments required research that dated back into the times when everything was not readily available online, and on these occasions, John needed to venture out into the library to get the hard copy book.

Today was one such day. It was only one book that John needed, but it was an absolute necessity for the assignment he was working on. He'd tried to find it online – or at least excerpts of it – so that he did not have to leave his bed, but to no avail. So, he'd gotten up, dressed, and made it to the university library. He'd worked out what section of the library it would be in, and he had located the shelf, and the book, in question – and, because the universe clearly wanted him to suffer, the book just so happened to be on the top shelf.

There were stools lying around the library for this reason, of course. John wasn't the only person who couldn't reach the top shelf, and he knew of one girl in his class who struggled to reach the shelf even with a stool under her feet. Normally, John would have no problems going and getting a stool, because it wasn't like he'd be the only one.

The only issue was that all of thirty seconds ago, some ridiculously tall man in a long coat that made him look even taller had gone and grabbed a book from the top shelf without even getting on his toes, and John had decided that he could not allow himself to admit defeat and get a stool mere seconds later.

Mr Billowy-Coat was probably not even paying enough attention to John to take note of him grabbing a book from the same shelf, with or without a stool. Even if he was paying attention, it was highly unlikely that he would really care. However, John now had it in his head that he had something to prove – to himself, or to Mr Billowy-Coat, or to the universe itself. All things considered, John was just too stubborn to admit defeat. This was the epic battle of John Watson versus the Library Shelf, and John Watson was going to win.

Unfortunately, it became quickly apparent to him that reaching for the book was not going to lead him to victory. He didn't try to reach for long, knowing that straining on the tips of his toes would be perhaps even more humiliating than grabbing a stool, but in his few seconds that he allowed himself to attempt to reach for it, he discovered that his fingertips could barely brush against the bottom of the spine, let alone actually grasp it and pull it from the shelf.

He could climb the shelves like a ladder, he thought to himself. He would only need to climb up one, maybe two at most, so that he could reach the book. However, John wasn't sure if the shelf would hold his weight. It probably would not crack beneath him, but it was highly likely that he might manage to pull the whole shelf down on top of him. Or maybe he would push it the other way, and maybe it would be like on telly, and he'd make a domino effect and knock down every shelf in the library. Maybe it was better not to risk that, for his sake as much as for every other person in the library who would risk being crushed beneath the falling shelves.

There was one thing left to do.

John looked around briefly, making sure that there were no librarians lurking about, waiting to yell at him for putting a foot out of line. The only advantage to this entire situation was that the book John wanted was on the shelf closest to the wall, which meant that he was relatively hidden. There were no librarians, and very few students, with the exception of Mr Billowy-Coat, who had frustratingly chosen to take a seat at the one table in the library that actually gave him a view of John. If Mr Billowy-Coat had just grabbed his book and been on his way, then John would have not been within anyone's line of sight, and he could have gone and grabbed a stool without experiencing any sort of humiliation. But no, Mr Billowy-Coat had taken the only seat in the library that had left John in his line of sight, and so now John had something to prove – never mind that Mr Billowy-Coat's gaze was fixed on the book and not on John.

Satisfied that there were no librarians around to see him, John took three slow steps back, and then ran at the shelf, springing off the floor at the last minute and grasping for the book. And he almost made it, too. He felt his hand brush against the spine of the book, and if he could just wrap his hand around the book he would be able to pull it from its place on the shelf. Unfortunately, while touching a book after doing a flying leap for it is easy, grasping the book and pulling it from the shelf is a lot more difficult. John's hand slipped away before he had the opportunity to tighten his grip on the spine, and he fell, landing with a thump beside the shelf with no book in his hands.

The fall wasn't from a big enough height to cause any real pain, but landing on one's bottom was still not the most pleasant experience. Regardless, John ignored it as best as he could, scurrying to his feet before one of the librarians came to investigate the thump and found him on the floor. He straightened up his shirt, and glared up the book as though it was solely at fault for his fall (which it kind of was, because if the book was not on the top shelf then John would not have made a running leap for it and would not have fallen on his bottom). He then tried to subtly look over his shoulder to see if Mr Billowy-Coat had noticed his fall.

The table that Mr Billowy-Coat had been sitting at moments earlier was empty, and John had a split second where he hoped that, perhaps, Mr Billowy-Coat got up before John had tried to make a running leap for the shelf and thus had not seen him move. This hope did not last beyond the split second, however, because John took half a step back, and stepped straight into someone standing behind him. He turned his head to look over his shoulder – up over his shoulder, because Christ, the man was tall – and found himself face to face with Mr Billowy-Coat himself.

The man wasn't grinning, or laughing, but John was fairly certain there was a sort of glint in his eyes that said he was amused. Other than that, however, his expression was almost blank, making him very difficult to read. That, coupled with his height, and the fact that his eyes were piercingly bright, made him almost intimidating to look at. Almost. John wasn't going to be intimidated by anyone, never mind that they were well over a head taller than him.

"Need help?" said the tall stranger, and John shook his head quickly.

"Definitely not," he said, turning back to the shelf and reaching for the book again, as though he might have, by some miracle, grown the extra few centimetres in the past few minutes. Unsurprisingly, he had not, but that did not stop him from reaching for it.

"It looks like you need help," the stranger said after a moment, and John shook his head without so much as turning around.

"No, I'm fine."

John heard the rustle of fabric behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder he noticed that the stranger had crossed his arms over his chest, and was leaning sideways against the shelves, body language saying bored while the odd little glint in his eyes said amused. "You don't look fine."

"I _am_ fine," John said, with a little more force, as though that made his pathetic attempt to reach for a book that was too high up for him seem any less pathetic. "Go back to whatever you were studying."

"What I was studying was dull," the man said, "and this is far more amusing. Besides, you're distracting me."

"I'm distracting you?" John repeated. "How on earth am _I_ distracting _you_? _You_ are distracting _me_ from getting my book."

"You're failing to get your book because you're short. That has nothing to do with me."

John looked over his shoulder purely to glare at the other man, but, unfortunately, he couldn't argue with him. This made the situation all the more frustrating.

"I'm not distracting you," John said, turning back to the shelf and examining it, wondering if maybe he could climb it to reach the book. If he was fast enough, maybe he could get onto the shelf and back off again before it had time to fall beneath his weight. That was how gravity worked, wasn't it?

"You were," the man continued, "when you were trying to run at the shelf. If you make any more noise you'll draw the librarian over, and she'll undoubtedly think I was the one behind it."

"Why on earth would she think that?"

"Because I usually am the one behind any commotion in the library."

John glanced over his shoulder again, the man's statement piquing his interest, just a bit, and tempting him for a moment to ask what the man was referring to. Only for a moment, however, before John decided that holding onto whatever dignity he had left and getting this book off the shelf was more important.

He turned his attention back to the shelf in order to feign disinterest, and said, "Well, don't worry. I don't intend on making any more loud noises, so you can go back to..."

He trailed off at that point, because Mr Billowy-Coat reached past him, grabbed the book off the shelf (without even getting up on his toes, the bastard) and pulled it down, holding it out for John at a height that he could actually reach.

John wasn't sure his dignity could take it.

He glanced down at the book, and then back up at the man holding it. "Actually, I don't think I need it after all."

The man fixed him with a look, raising one eyebrow. "Are you really that stubborn?"

"Um, yes," John replied. "I didn't ask for your help."

The man rolled his eyes. "No, you just went to extreme lengths to try to reach a book without grabbing a stool and ultimately failed. But, whatever you say." He reached past John to put the book back on the shelf – not the top shelf where it belonged, but one shelf below, where John could actually reach – and then moved back over to his desk without a word.

There was no reason for John to be stubborn about it, really. He wasn't gaining anything by refusing to accept the help of the stranger. But, to him it felt like he was losing something – his dignity.

It was distinctly possible that he was being a bit dramatic about all of it.

He glared at the book, and then at the man, who was not looking at him and probably did not even realise that he was being glared at, before turning back to the shelf, and taking the book off it.

"I'm only taking it because the librarian will be annoyed if she discovers it's been put back in the wrong place," he said, as he walked past the man's desk, back to where he had set up his things at one of the other tables.

"Whatever you say," the man said behind him, but John had mostly tuned him out by that point, because he realised that the table he had been sitting at had been taken within the past few minutes while he was at the shelf. He had left his laptop and his bag on the desk, to make it clear that it was taken, and someone had gone over and taken it nonetheless. He had a panicked moment where he thought his laptop had been stolen – which would be really, really bad, because it would be ages before he saved up enough money to afford a new one – but when he scanned the library he realised that it had all been moved to a pile on the floor a metre or so away from the desk.

The relief that John's belongings had not been stolen from him was quickly replaced by anger, because someone had thought they were just entitled to his desk. He had half a mind to go over there and tell whoever it was off for taking his seat, but he decided against it. Raising his voice would just cause unnecessary commotion for everyone else in the library, and get him kicked out, and if the person who was sitting at his desk had decided that they were entitled to move his belongings, they were probably the sort of person who would not easily back down from a fight. That, and John had no way of being certain that the person currently sitting at his desk was the same person that had moved his stuff. He wouldn't want to start a fight to someone who had sat down on what they had believed to be a vacant desk.

It really was not John's day.

Resisting the urge to stomp or to drag his feet like a child throwing a temper-tantrum, John walked over and gathered up his stuff, glancing up at the person sitting at his desk in case he could guilt-trip them with a look and convince them to give John back his seat. That was unsuccessful, given said person didn't even look at him. So, John stood, and scanned around for a vacant desk. It didn't surprise him to discover there were none – whoever had taken his desk wouldn't have taken it if there had been another option.

Well, no, there was one, John realised when he looked around a little longer. Some of the desks were big enough for two people. That included the desk that Mr Billowy-Coat was sitting at.

The man had spread out all his things over the desk, making it look much smaller than it was, but if he kept his belongings to himself then John was certain that there would be enough room for him as well. And it was just his luck, wasn't it, that it was with the one person who had already humiliated John today.

He was being irrational, really. John knew this much. The man had just tried to help – never mind that he had an annoying, amused expression on his face, like he was laughing at John's struggle. John was being far more stubborn about this than he should have been, that was for sure.

And right now, John didn't exactly have anywhere else to sit.

Tucking his laptop under one arm and swinging his bag over one shoulder, he made his way back through the clutter of desks and students, to the desk by the wall where Mr Billowy-Coat was sitting. The man in question looked up at him when he walked over, raising one eyebrow.

"Need help putting the book back, now?" he asked, and John glared at him.

"I need somewhere to sit. Someone stole my desk."

He said this pointedly, in a way that almost sounded like he was blaming the man in front of him for it. The man in front of him seemed to take it that way as well, as he then said, "That's hardly my fault. In fact, if you'd not wasted so much time trying to get the book down, you'd probably still have your desk."

John let out a perhaps slightly over-exaggerated, exasperated sigh. "Can you please just move your stuff so I can sit here?" he said, gesturing to the pile of the man's belongings spread out over the desk. Fortunately, the man didn't argue, moving them out of the way, and John slid into the seat across from him, setting up his laptop and opening up the book.

He had gotten as far as opening up the document that held his assignment, and was beginning to type, when the man spoke.

"It's not that you're defensive about your height."

John glanced up at him over his laptop lid, frowning. "Excuse me?"

"You're frustrated – stressed because of the assignment you're working on, undoubtedly – and you're feeling resentful because you couldn't get the book down without help," the man stated. He was looking straight at John as he spoke – his piercingly bright blue eyes seemed like they were looking straight into him. It made John want to squirm and duck his head, but he held the man's gaze.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're feeling resentful because you don't like admitting defeat," the man continued. "Because you feel like the fact that you were unable to do something as simple as reach a book reflects poorly on you in some way." He leaned his elbows on the table, steepled his hands beneath his chin, and narrowed his eyes, and now John _really_ felt like he was under scrutiny.

"Are you psychoanalysing me?"

The man didn't respond to that, instead continuing with his apparent psychoanalysis. "You've grown up believing you have something to prove. Perhaps that was your motivation for studying medicine, too – you want to become a doctor, because it will somehow prove that you are capable."

"No, I want to be a doctor because I want to help people, thank you very much, Freud."

"That too, yes, but I imagine proving yourself is a part of it. You only have one sibling, so I doubt it stems from being the youngest child and needing to measure up to your elder siblings. Could reflect parental treatment, but with your father drinking, I'd say you weren't so determined to prove yourself to him as you were to make sure he didn't kill himself."

"Oh, yeah, daddy didn't love me enough so now I don't like it when people grab books off shelves for me," John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, and a hint of annoyance, and a hint of discomfort, because this man – this man, whose name John did not even know – was just about reading him like an open book. "Do you hear yourself?"

"You're getting defensive because I'm on the right track, aren't you?" the man said. "I can't say for certain what it was, precisely, that made you feel like you have something to prove to yourself – that delves too far into the realms of psychoanalysis, I'd rather stick to deduction – but that's why you're frustrated with me. Because something, be it relationships with your parents or with your sister or with your friends, has made you feel like you need to be entirely self-sufficient." He leaned a little further forward on the desk. "Oh, no, it's not that you feel like you need to _prove_ that you are self-sufficient. It's that you _are_ self-sufficient, and it's all that you're used to. You've grown up caring for yourself and your sister, because your father was never in the right state of mind to do that, and it makes you feel like you have to behave in the same way in every other aspect of your life. Explains how you ended up captain of the rugby team."

For a moment, John could do nothing but gape. When he finally managed to find words, all he could say was, "Do we have classes together or something?"

"Technically, I think we're both taking chemistry, though I never bother going to class if I can help it," the man replied.

"So you watch rugby games, then?"

The man shook his head. "No, I find the sport dreadfully boring. But, it's clear from your build that you play, and I have overheard people mentioning that the captain is a medical student. Bit of a leap, though not a complete shot in the dark, and your reaction tells me I'm right."

"You can tell I play rugby from my build?"

"Hardly my most impressive deduction."

"It's still kind of impressive," John said, and the man looked surprised by that comment.

"Oh," he said, and suddenly, he looked a lot less confident, seeming almost shyer. It was such a stark contrast, compared to the intensity with which he'd been staring at John before, and the way he had been spilling 'deductions' (as he called them) with such certainty that it was almost as though he could read John's mind.

The man's gaze returned to the book in front of him, perhaps not sure how to respond to John's compliment, and John himself returned his own attention to his laptop. He typed silently for a few minutes before speaking again, without looking up from his screen. "You're not wrong," he said quietly. "About any of it."

"I rarely am," the man said. "Though most people don't usually respond so well."

"Doesn't surprise me. It's a bit weird, being psychoanalysed."

"Deduced," the man corrected quickly.

"Deduced," John repeated. "If you say so. Either way, most people would find it a bit disconcerting."

"Most people get up and leave. Generally after telling me to piss off."

John looked up at him over his laptop lid, and he tilted his head to the side. "Is that why you said all that? In hopes that I'd vacate your desk?"

The man's lips quirked upwards into something resembling a smile. "Partially," he said. "Mostly because I don't tend to have a censor at the best of times."

"Well, that's obvious," John said, and he smiled a bit before looking back at his laptop. "Sorry, though. For being defensive or whatever."

"Don't apologise," the man said shortly. "I didn't make those deductions to call you out on poor behaviour or anything of the sort. I'm hardly offended."

"Of course," John said. "But, sorry, anyway."

The man shrugged his shoulders, though he was still smiling faintly. "You're forgiven," he said, and then he returned his attention to the book in front of him, and John returned his gaze to his laptop.

They fell into silence at that point, John more focussed on his assignment and the man across from him probably more focussed on whatever he was doing as well. John glanced at him a couple of times in between typing sentences and looking at the book beside him, but, at least that John saw, the other man never looked up. That was probably better. John really did need to get this assignment done, and if the man started talking to him again, he might not have been able to stop himself from asking questions, about how the man could tell that much about John, and what else he could tell about John – and if they got into that conversation, John's assignment would never get done.

It was about forty-five minutes later when John finished with the book he had been using. He hadn't finished the entire assignment – there was still some more research to do, and the rest of it to write – but he would work better at home. He usually did – he could sit back and have his tea and plug his laptop into charge without having to fight someone for a desk that was within reach of a power plug. He put his laptop back in his bag, tucked his book under his arm so he could drop it off in the returns chute, and then got to his feet. "Hey," he said before leaving, and the man looked up at him. "Thank you. For getting the book down for me."

The man's lips pulled upwards once again. "I thought you were annoyed that I'd helped you."

"I was," John said. "But I was also being a bit of a git, and I apologised. So, thank you."

"You're welcome."

John turned to leave, took a step, and then turned back. "I'm John, by the way," he said. When the man looked at him blankly, he added, "In case you were wondering."

The man was quiet for a moment, and John worried that he might say something like 'No, I wasn't wondering', but after a pause, he said, "Sherlock," and John smiled.

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock," he said. "Good luck with whatever you're working on."

Sherlock's lips pulled up into a half-smile. "Good luck reaching books off high shelves," he said, and John glared, although there was no real heat behind it this time.

"Git," he said. Sherlock shrugged.

"Now we're even."

John pursed his lips for a moment, and then smiled. "Fair enough," he said. "I'll see you around, maybe."

He slung his bag over his shoulder, and then moved to walk away. He turned back just before he rounded one of the shelves, and this time, he did catch Sherlock's gaze on him. Just for a moment, before Sherlock returned his attention to his book, and John stepped around the corner.


End file.
